


blue as you can be

by snippedHazard



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Everyone Involved In This Gangbang Is Tripping Balls), Actually Not Safe Sane OR Consensual Wow, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Biting, Breathplay, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Disassociation, Dom Jane Crocker, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Gangbang, Humiliation, If You Try This In The Real World Where Magic Is Not Real Someone Will Go To The Hospital, Land of Tombs and Krypton, Licking, Light Bondage, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Masochism, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, Napping, No Beta We Die Like Kinky Idiots, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Objectification, Overstimulation, POV Second Person, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Sub Dirk Strider, Threesome - F/M/M, Trickster Mode (Homestuck), Unrealistic Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Whump, emotional masochism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snippedHazard/pseuds/snippedHazard
Summary: What if in A06A05, when the Tricksters got to LOTAK, Roxy, Jane, and Jake just fucked Dirk instead?That's literally it.
Relationships: Jane Crocker/Jake English/Dirk Strider, Jane Crocker/Jake English/Roxy Lalonde/Dirk Strider
Comments: 16
Kudos: 92





	1. man, i haven't got a chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the Alphas surprise Dirk, and they won't take no for an answer.

“DIIIIIIIIIIIRK!” You feel your heartbeat in your mouth. You had seen the eyestrain party plummeting into your Land from miles away, like a comet having a seizure, and immediately booked it. Unfortunately, pretty much the only geographical features capable of providing any cover were either hovering clouds of krypton gas (not ideal) and tombs, which all lead to literal dead ends—and you aren’t dumb enough to trap yourself in a subterranean warren of crypts with the full force of Tricksters after you.

Your hasty exit bought you a few minutes but not much else; you have no plan, nothing but the clothes on your back, your sylladex (which is mostly full of robot parts because you’d been moping, a waste of time now deeply regretted), and your Unbreakable Katana, which, despite the (your) hype, did not seem like a match to cherubic juju. Not that you really knew anything about the jujus — pretty much everything you just internally self-expositioned came from the fact that the Tricksters were seemingly completely incapable of not yelling and pretty blunt about the sales pitch. Fuck that, though. Fuck that straight through the ear and right into next week. 

You vault another half-sunken headstone, not slowing, counting breaths (this would, objectively, be a fucking terrible time to have a full on attack) and frantically flick through your sylladex. You curse the missed opportunities to mine UU for information back on Earth, ‘log anything better from your house, and generally repair your personal relationships with literally the only three human beings who have ever cared about you. In short, you really do not want this to be happening. Unfortunately, your feelings, though often influential to the creation and destruction of worlds, were inconsequential here, as you are keenly aware. 

You’d ditched your shades a while back, as the only people on your chumroll had been Trickstering their blinding shouts directly into his face, and while you don’t miss the pestering, you do regret being forced to abandon tech—you need all the weapons you can get right now. Speaking of which, the GROOVE ROWS currently in your sylladex are, in order from most to least helpful, WEAPONS (your brain unhelpfully adds the suffix “:Puny Earth”) WEIRD SHAPED PIECES OF METAL, HORSE, and TASTY. 

So this is how it ends, you think to yourself. Not with a bang but with a WAHOOOOOOOOOOO. Unnervingly, you  _ smell _ the Tricksters closing in—something like burning sugar. You stop running.

“DIRK, YOU SILLY OLD BOY,” your ex-boyfriend croons. His voice sounds exactly the same as usual, except louder and one thousand percent happier, underlaid with barely discernible harmonics that hurt your ears. “WE WERE LOOKING FOR YOU! WHY COULDN’T WE FIND YOU? WE WERE GOING TO SURPRISE YOU AT HOME WITH THE SMASHINGEST SURPRISE, DIRK!”

“Answered your own question there, bro,” you quip, and immediately regret it—you didn’t mean to sound so fucking  _ scared _ . Jake just laughs, exposing his incredibly white teeth and violently pink gums in an exaggerated display. You look around and something in your gut twists, because you know how to deal with Jake, in every possible way, and you might have been able to scrape his way out of an altercation of candy-crazed him, but with Jane and Roxy backing him up, you’re just straight up doomed. The other two laugh with him, just as uproariously, in a way that sounds sweet and discordant at the same time, like ten songs playing at once. The burnt-sugar smell intensifies, and your eyes water. 

Jake leans forward, and you take a step back, decaptchaloguing your katana. 

“YOU’VE BEEN SO SILLY, DIRK! BUT IT’S OKAY! I FORGIVE YOU! WE ALL FORGIVE EVERYONE!” Jake says, still grinning like a skull. Roxy and Jane nod madly.

“You forgive  _ me _ ?” you snap, forgetting the precarious situation for a moment of sheer outrage. “I know I wasn’t the best boyfriend ever, but I was just trying to get  _ close _ to you—I wanted to figure out how to  _ fix _ things! You were the one who ghosted me, and, oh yeah, ironically, broke my fucking heart!”

“You seem ANGRY, Dirk,” Jane says, her eyes glowing glitch-cyan. Yeah, you done fucked up. “MAD and LONELY and SCARED—just like I WAS! But you don’t NEED to have PROBLEMS now, Dirk! If you would just LISTEN to US there would be NO MORE PROBLEMS FOREVER EVER! Wouldn’t that be GREAT, Dirk! DON’T YOU WANT IT?” It doesn’t actually sound like a question. You don’t see them move, but all of them suddenly seem closer to you. It’s so bright. You want your shades back. 

“I LOVE you, DIRK!” Jake says. “Let’s KISS about IT! LET’S kiss A ZILLION TIMES and have a ZILLION BABIES!” All the inflections in their speech are uncanny-valley wrong with emphasis in the wrong places and unwavering cheer. You take another step back.

“Not a step further. Don’t you fuckers touch me,” you say, perfectly monotone. Damn, you still haven’t gotten used to hiding your emotions in person. Jake pouts, his whole body folding over in an exaggerated slump that happens to edge him close to you. 

“But DIRK,” he pleads. “I mean it!”

“You may be my friends, but I  _ will _ fuck you up.” You decaptchalogue a throwing knife and send it as close to him as you can bear. The knife turns into a shower of lime green glitter as it grazes Jake’s ear. He doesn’t even blink. Actually, you haven’t seen any of them blink yet. You are so, so boned.

“OH, DIRK,” Jane says, “Would YOU REALLY?” Shit, they’re getting close; there are no gaps in their formation to flash through, and only a mausoleum a few steps from your back. You send the rest of the short blades whizzing at them in panic, and watch as they turn into squishy pieces of brightly colored fruit, complete with little laughing faces and an obnoxious  _ meow _ sound effect. None of their eyes look right, pupils blown out to pinpricks. Roxy’s scarf lashes in an invisible wind. 

“DIRK, YOU need to SOLVE YORU PROBLEMS!”

“—fuck off—” You bat at the scarf slithering into your personal bubble.

“HERE, I’LL GO! I HAV ESUCH A CRUSH ON YUO DIRK! DID YOU KNOW THAT! HA HA NOW THAT YOU KNOW THAT WE CAN ALL GET QUDRAUPLE MARRIED YAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

“YIPPEE,” Jake and Jane chime. 

“I did know that, Roxy, and I’m not marrying anyone—”

“LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND, DIRK!” Roxy says, seeming to have gotten distracted. “FOR NORMAL REASONS WHERE I DON’T SNEAK A WEDDING RING ON SEMCIOLON CLOSPAREN” Or not.

“No!” You flinch violently away from Roxy’s questing grip and bash straight into the unforgiving stone wall at your back—shit, when did they get you cornered? She tries again and your next desperate dodge sends you straight into Jake’s arms. “Get away—get away from me—” The rest of your sylladex is decaptchalogued as forcefully as you can manage, chip packets and screwdrivers going flying but not affecting the Tricksters at all, and when you strike at Jake he catches your hand in his, a grip that makes your hand go numb with its force, and plucks the sword out of your hand like a toothpick with a whimsical “YOINK,” tossing it away. You don’t even get to see where it goes because the Tricksters crowd you. “No, no, I don’t—please—” Jake pins your arms to your sides, and you can feel their hot, sweet breath on your neck and face acutely. 

You brace for tricksterfication, and feel power skin over you starting from your caught fist, like tingling static, but you don’t actually… feel that different? Sure, the world has just gone colorful, your body heavy and syrupy-slow, but… you’re still pretty mad, if a little woozy? Definitely not feeling the urge to spout love and babies and candy from every orifice, and honestly? Still very afraid. Your shirt does seem to be blue now, though. Huh. 

“We’re SOOOOOOOOOOO GLAD YOU CAME AROUND, DIRK,” Jane says. “NOW WE CAN STOP BEING BORING—” 

“AND GET TO THE FUN PART!” Jake finishes, smiling with entirely too many teeth.

“I’m not,” you start to say, before Jake’s mouth is on yours. It’s not particularly pleasant, Jake much too smiley and slobbery, but his hands are so heavy and hot on your arms and you can’t pull away. You’re so dizzy. Everything is too bright and Jake is much too close to you. You can’t feel anything except him pressed into you, giggling into your mouth. 

Suddenly, he’s torn away, leaving you gasping for breath, eyes watering, hyperventilating a little bit, as Roxy shoves her way in front. 

“Oh, no,” you wheeze. “Oh no oh no oh no no n—” 

“I LIKED DIRK FIRST, JAKEY! THAT MEANS I SHOULD GET DISB!” Roxy proclaims, and starts trying to tonguefuck your lungs out. Her hands almost burn where they cage your jaw and neck. You weakly try to push her away, but your head is spinning and you still feel like you’re moving through molasses. You’re completely flattened against the outside wall of that mausoleum now. Somehow, this feels even more invasive than Jake’s, and you’re ridiculously relieved when she takes one hand off your neck, seizing the moment to make a desperate buck for freedom. Then she grabs your ass, using her punishing grip to haul your torso back directly under her. Her hand curls possessively around your hip, nails punching straight through your insubstantial, ridiculous orange pants. You protest loudly into her mouth, but she only chuckles, starting to move both of her hands restraining you in what seems like characteristic trickster inability to sit still. You have a dull headache massing behind your eyes, and every muscle in your body just wants to go limp and let this happen. Things are not great. 

Things, however, perhaps taking your most recent despairing inner monologue as a challenge, proceed to very rapidly get a lot worse. Roxy’s hand gropes at your waistband and then plunges past it. The only thing you can think is  _ no no no please no please no _ , but your downstairs area does not seem to have gotten the message, Roxy’s forceful, spasmodic gropes having affected matters. 

She laughs, horrible, “I KNEW YOU’D GET HERE EVENTUALLY! WE’RE SOLVING SO MANY INTERPESRONAL PROBLEMS RIGHT NOW!” Any struggling just brings you closer up against Roxy, every point of contact mercilessly grinds into her, this is the scariest thing that has ever happened to you and you’re so turned on your dick literally aches with it. Your entire body feels hopelessly sensitive, overloaded. Roxy lays a line of sloppy smooches down your jawline, giggles into the side of your throat, and then bites down, hard. You almost come just from that, breathless with horror, too strung-out to even struggle anymore. Your knees give out and Roxy barely even notices, crushing you against the wall, taking your full weight into her roaming hands. You might be crying a little bit now. It’s hard to tell. Roxy smells and tastes like cotton candy, Peeps, maraschino cherries—just biting sugar—and alcohol so strong it’s almost antiseptic. All the tricksters have been talking pretty much the whole time, senseless, cheery babble flooding your already overtaxed brain, and with a wrench, you tune back in just in time to hear Roxy conclude a monologue. 

“You know, I ALWAYS loved you, Dirk,” Roxy says, nuzzling your collarbone and then sucking another vicious mark onto it. “It just makes me SO HAPPY that isn’t a PROLBEM anymore!” 

“Ghhh,” you respond, and, fighting for coherency, “please, please—Roxy—I know, I know this isn’t—” You trail off into a breathless whine, high, animal, terrified, and hate yourself for it even though you can’t stop, as Roxy’s hand in your pants  _ squeezes _ , hard, and starts stroking relentlessly. Your hips can’t decide whether to press in or away from the touch, too much, and you end up not really going anywhere anyway as you shake and gasp like an overheating machine, coming apart. You dig the fingers of your free hand into the rough-hewn wall behind you, trying to ground yourself, and the chilly stone feels like a reprieve as it tears up the pads of your scrabbling fingers, drawing blood. You flatten your hand on the wall for a moment, almost basking in the shock of pain and wet on your fingers, when it suddenly drops away.

You open your eyes to see Jake, beaming down at you, hand clamped around your wrist like a shackle. “OH, NONE OF THAT, CHAP! WE DON’T EVER WANT TO YOU TO HURT! WE JUST WANT YOU TO FEEL SO GOOD, AND HAPPY, AND FUNNY, AND LOVED! SO LOVED, DIRK! WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DIRK!” You’re at a loss for words. Jake’s face is smeared with what looks like blue buttercream frosting (your stomach twists), and Jane appears behind him looking smug, and there’s all of them versus just you and Jake bends his head down and laps the blood from your palm, the wounds closing in his wake. He grins at you, dashing English devil-may-care except a shade too wide, your blood garish on his lips and teeth. Jake kisses the tears off your cheeks—so you  _ were _ crying—savoring them almost obscenely. 

“Creamsicle,” he says thoughtfully, and before you connect the dots Jane has shouted, “OOH, LET ME TRY!” and swept him into a passionate kiss. Jake’s almost folded in half and his hand is still around your wrist, squeezing so tight you can feel your pulse pounding all through your hand, pulling you dangerously close to Jane. She emerges looking victorious, says, “You were so right, Jake. He’s just as sweet as an Orange Julius,” and you can feel spit and blood drying tacky on your cheeks. Jane pats you affectionately, almost petting or papping. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 11th birthday to Homestuck, everybody. Have some really weird porn. (It's not my fault Dirk hurts so pretty.) 
> 
> I actually had a longer outline plotted out all the way to orgy aftermath, possibly involving blowjobs, a ridiculous dildo, spitroasting, probably just _too_ many orgasms, breathplay, sitting on people, voyeurism, Jane actually getting a turn, and 100% more Stupid Trickster Shit, but I ran out of steam and was pretty happy with what I have. If anyone's interested, though, I might continue it.
> 
> The title is from "Lollipop" by MIKA, because I am embarrassingly literal.
> 
> If you see any typos or general errors, please tell me. Constructive criticism welcomed.


	2. call my baby, tell you why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just splitting this into two chapters for convenience. This is actually how it was originally divided in my draft doc.

“OH, I MUSN’T FORGET!” Jake says, startling all of you. He spins two candy-colored flintlocks in his hands, and suddenly all four of you are on a sumptuous bed, sheets slippery and the mattress squashy enough to get stuck in. You’re surrounded on all sides, nothing to orient yourself by, just flash and sugar filling your field of vision. Roxy has one burning hand wrapped around your neck, violinist fingers long and graceful, and Jake says “RO-LAL,” (your guts boil,  _ he _ doesn’t call her that) “I HAVE JUST SO UNEXPECTEDLY HAD THE MOST EXCELLENT IDEA!” 

“ALL OF YOUR IDEAS ARE SO EXCELLENT, JAKE!” says Roxy. “LET’S DO THE IDEA RIGHT NOW!” Her smile is cheshire when she tears your trousers off as easily as a cupcake wrapper. Jake, without hesitating, grabs you by the back of the collar, hauling you up like a kitten (he was fit before but he’s so  _ strong _ now, you’re afraid he’ll break you on accident) and drags you into his lap. He ties your wrists behind you with a green suspender and situates himself with legs extended. Now you’re facing away from him, back pressed to his chest, half-sitting, half-kneeling with your legs spread as far as they can go, cock bobbing between your legs obscenely. Roxy is stripping too, leisurely, starting from her clowny shoes. 

You gasp when you feel Jake’s erection, somehow already slick, slide against the cleft of your ass. Your head falls back on his shoulder, eyes flinching shut, and you can feel the vibration of his laughter through it. He places a finger at your entrance, and you expect it to be much more painful than it is; the trickster mojo seems to have  _ thoroughly _ relaxed you, for better or worse, and when he slips another two fingers in it barely hurts when he starts moving, still too short and too slim to give you any real relief from the ache curling in your stomach. Which is not to say that Jake’s fingers are short or slim. They’re thick, powerful, and you’re gaining a new appreciation for the gun-calluses on his forefinger. Overwhelmed, your hips arch. 

“Please, please, oh—Jake— _ God,  _ English,” you pant, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for now. “STEADY NOW, BRONCO,” Jake chuckles, and shoves you back down with his other hand on your hip. “IT WOULDN’T BE VERY NICE IF WE DIDN’T DO THIS NEXT PART FAIRLY, NOW WOULD IT?” His fingers withdraw, and you experience one cold second of total confusion before his cock slams into you at the exact same time as Roxy sinks down on yours. 

You see stars. You’re completely trapped, pinned like a specimen on a microscope slide between the two of them, you’re pretty sure your brain just shorts out for a few seconds and when it optimistically reboots, Jake and Roxy have developed a rhythm. Punishing and amazing, it seems designed to wring the most humiliating noises out of you as possible. Both of their hands are all over you, your whole oversensitive body, Jake’s teeth oddly sharp on the shell of your ear, Roxy finding your nipples and making you cry out. Roxy’s low moans and chuckles melt into a kind of rumbling purr deep in her chest, and it’s ridiculously arousing, and you have to try not to listen to that or the short, almost pleasantly surprised exhales when she lifts up on her knees and slams back down. Every time you feel her around you, a kind of tight, almost painful friction that drives all thoughts of escape from your mind, it makes you clench around Jake, who presses you further into Roxy, and it’s an ouroboros of  _ too much _ that has you begging again, unintelligible, garbled sounds flying out of your mouth that are all mostly just trying to mean  _ please, please, Jake, Roxy, please if we were ever friends, if you ever loved me the way I loved both of you, please, don’t, please, _ until Roxy’s legs tense and lock around your hips and she comes with a luxurious moan, and that’s it for you, you’re coming so hard it hurts, thrashing against the tie around your wrists and the hands holding all the rest of you in place to no avail. 

Roxy dismounts your lap with an obscene sound. Even through the trickster colors, the light flush on her face is beautiful. If you thought your poor exhausted dick was oversensitive before, now it pretty much feels like you could come dry from a stiff breeze. Jake makes a frustrated noise behind you, still thrusting. Hhhh. Trickster mode must give you insane stamina—if you’re not unlucky winner Dirk Strider, Prince of Heart and Fucked of Ass, that is. These two facts are extremely worrying, especially in conjunction. You add another item to the list of things you are afraid the Tricksters might do: literally fuck you to death. The thought is nightmarish, and, despite your best effort, sort of a turn-on. Your recalcitrant dick twitches weakly. “Okay, your turn, Janey,” Roxy yawns, curling against the mound of pillows against the headboard.

“You sure took your sweet time, Roxy,” Jane mutters, but doesn’t seem too seriously upset. She looks at the tangle of the three of you and makes a considering noise. She gets a glint in her eyes of that Patented Crocker Take Charge-itude and crawls closer, shoving at Jake’s hip until he reluctantly pulls out. 

“Oh, calm down, you,” she says sternly to Jake and his sad green puppy in a rainstorm eyes. “I’m just getting things situated. You and him will get right back at it in no time.” 

“He will?!” you say, a little hysterically, having managed to regain a little coherency now that you are momentarily not being double-teamed into next Tuesday by a pair of manic sexpots. Jane looks down at you as though she’d forgotten that you made noises other than “please.” Which would be fair. 

“You cool your heels as well, Mr. Strider,” Jane reprimands. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me: you’ll like it.” 

And God help you, but you do the first and are almost certainly going to do the second. You always have been susceptible to her when she gets all bossy.

Jane directs Jake to get off the bed, standing him next to it. He takes you with him, moving you with an arm around your chest; now you’re sitting up, leaning on him with your legs splayed over the bed. They’re arranging you like a doll. Jane grabs your legs and torso in an almost bridal carry and swivels you around to face Jake instead of her. She fingers the green tie on your wrists. 

“It would be much better if we could take this off. Are you going to be good, Dirk?” Then she laughs uproariously. “Hoo hoo! Of course you will. We’ll make sure of it. You won’t have to do anything!” Jane unties the suspender and tosses it away—you have a flash of hope. Maybe if you wait, they’ll let their guard down, or the juju will wear off, or both. Then, she gently sets your legs on either side of his head, your knees hooked over his shoulders, lowers your torso onto the bed, and shoves an overstuffed pillow under your hips. 

Oh, this is worse. This is so, so much worse. You’re utterly helpless, flat on your back with absolutely no leverage and nowhere to go. Your arms are free now, but he’s totally trapped your legs, your most vulnerable parts presented up to him practically on a platter. You can’t even really reach out and touch him. Jake digs his thumbs into your bony hips and smiles with satisfaction when they redden in response and bruise. He throws one arm around your knees to hold you in place while he uses his other hand to carefully feed his cock back into your still-loose hole. He resumes his rhythm with alacrity, moaning happily and making your ass slightly bounce up and down on the springy pillow as his hips snap forward frantically again and again.

You just came, and it actually hurts when your dick starts trying to get hard again, but Jake is making a familiar tightness build in your balls nonetheless. For a second you’re a little grateful you know you can’t come from only being penetrated. If they had made you come again this soon you think your dick might have self-destructed. Here lies Dirk Strider, he died in the most embarrassing way possible, spontaneous combustion dick first, because so much was happening so fast and Dirk Jr. just threw in the fucking towel. He will be remembered as one of the dumbest idiots and worst friends to ever tarnish the human race, and will be nominated for a Darwin Awa—Jake finds your prostate, immediately cutting off the babble that may or may not be making it out of your mouth. Your hands scrabble uselessly on the slick sheets, and you buck and arch in a desperate search for something to feel other than the overwhelming presence fucking into you like a machine. 

Jane catches your flailing hands again, crushing them in a grip probably intended to be soothing. You really wish people would stop doing that; you clearly already aren’t going anywhere, so you feel like they shouldn’t need to rob you of  _ every _ last modicum of freedom. 

You lose some time then. You’re pretty good at multitasking, but mostly through normal things like getting stabbed and reading books and stuff, not having every erogenous nerve in your touch-starved teenage body electrocuted by candy magic. Things just kind of go hazy and lime-green and kiss-pink for a while. You drift. You might be dead. You might have actually died. At this point, you’re kind of okay with that. You can faintly hear Jane and Roxy making out in the background—giggles and smacking noises. At least you  _ hope _ they’re just making out. You try not to think about how they probably aren’t.

Jake goes tense behind you for a long moment, then climaxes with a groan. Feeling him come inside you probably would have triggered another orgasm if you hadn’t already had enough for a lifetime wrung out of you like the world’s grossest dish towel. As it is, all Jake’s getting from you right now is a weak, full-body shudder and a noise close to a sob. Somebody shoves at your shoulder and then Jake’s. 

“— _ monopolizing _ our Strider. You know, some of us haven’t even really had a turn yet, and there’s only one between the three of us, you rascal,” and then Jake’s slipping out of you, grumbling a little bit into your back in a way that you refuse to find cute right now, and gently pulling you to lie back down.

You’re now face to face with Jane, and beneath the eldritch neon her eyes are just as steadying as always, which, strangely, manages to comfort you in a way you don't want to examine. You squeeze your eyes shut. 


	3. kiss me till i can't see straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it's more fucking! (Were you surprised?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the added tags/warnings. (...Especially adverb overuse. Look, I'm no Hemingway, but it could be worse, and I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to own my shit.)

Jane catches your mouth in a warm, slow kiss—a welcome change from the bitey, frantic things Roxy and Jake had been inflicting on you earlier. You’re ashamed to say you kiss back a little, keeping your eyes closed, clinging to this one reassurance amid the eyestrain whirlwind, letting Jane take the reins with relief. She pulls back for a bare second.

Roxy nudges her head between you and Jane like a cat, appearing from nowhere. Jane shoves at her unseriously. 

“Oh my god, Roxy, fuck off, let other people have a turn for half a minute.” She shrugs her off. Roxy pouts deeply, an exaggerated sad-clown face that makes you wince, for approximately half a second before she gets distracted. 

“Oh, wait, never mind, you two keep him busy,” she chirps. “I have the most fantastic idea, but I need to alchemize it first—we don’t want Dirk to be bored!!!!!!!!!!!” That almost makes you laugh. Roxy skips off in the direction of the alchemizer. You have a bad feeling about that, and then Jake mouths over your Adam’s apple, scrapes his white, white teeth down your throat and along your clavicle, and you stop paying attention to what Roxy is doing, which is probably a mistake, but also not really your fault right now. 

“Oh, Dirk,” Jane says, almost ruefully, tenderly, blowing hot air over your swollen lips. You shiver. “It’s alright now. We’ll take care of you. Just listen to me and everyone will be happy, okay? Just focus on me, there’s a good boy.” Jane cups your cheek loosely, and the distant sting of humiliation at being so easily  _ held _ melts away with the renewed longing to be  _ kept _ like that. You sway into the touch, almost drunken (and if the trickster shit isn’t intoxicating you’ll eat your shirt with a hat on it), and Jane rewards you with another kiss, a lingering press like she’s branding you hers. You feel the bed dip to your right and see Jake settle down on Jane’s other side, now languid and relaxed, the urgency of before leached out of him (and into your ass, presumably), though his eyes still dance with a kind of nervous, catlike mischief that makes you wary. 

He presses his face into Jane’s shoulder, playful, doing something with his mouth that makes Jane shriek and giggle. You try to flinch away, still too sensitive, and can’t, Jane’s loose grip on your head feeling as heavy as chains, and Jake’s hand having made its way back onto your ass. You swear, that thing’s like a magnet, and your poor, defenseless tenderloin rump is like the North Pole, though your capacity to be upset about this has been close to maxed out.

Jane scrapes her teeth down your neck. There’s a dumb animal part of you wants her to bite down as hard as possible. 

You’re limp, pliable, almost resting, relatively, while Jake trails hickeys down Jane’s neck, scatters teasing little pinches all over her front and back, dropping kisses on wherever he can reach, somehow landing a wet smooch square on the left lens of her glasses. She’s smiling the whole time, hooting out those quiet, satisfied giggles that twist in your guts like knives. Jane’s been so unhappy with you. You didn’t see, because you’re not actually good at that, even though you try so hard to know everything, to plan for every eventuality, and you didn’t want to see, and there were other things you were focusing on, but here and now you are confronted with the brutal fact that your best friend in the entire fucking world, the girl you would (not even hypothetically) die for, has been so desperately unhappy and you didn’t notice because you’re a shit friend and a shit person and right now you’re getting what you deserve, which is watching the people you love most in the whole world make out in front of you, literally restrained so you can’t look away, having an ignominious and heartily deserved death delayed. 

Jake slips his fingers under Jane’s skirt, and she gasps, her grip on the sides of your face convulsing, probably leaving fingernail marks connecting your freckles. It almost sounds hurt, at first, breathless, strained, and your heart kind of stops before she arches up, groans, “more, Jake, yes, more,  _ more _ ,” and almost as an afterthought pulls you in, pushing a biting, scalding kiss into your mouth. 

The kiss keeps going. It just keeps going. It keeps happening, you think, absurdly. Jane’s aggressively colonizing your whole mouth, determined to—like how people in movies do the “I licked it it’s mine” thing, that, but just with your whole face,  _ kind _ of your whole self, in that she’s trying to slurp out your soul through your tonsils, catching your lip between her teeth so you’re helplessly suspended right where she wants you, like a fish on a hook, gaping stupidly like a beached bass, oh fuck this torturous metaphor got so away from you and now you’re pretty sure you’re getting light-headed, fuck, fuck, the other Tricksters may not need to breathe anymore but right now it certainly feels like you do, it keeps going, and there are voidblack static spots blinking in the edges of your vision and you feel hazy, think you might pass out, by the time Jane practically flings herself away from it, throwing her head back in an extravagant o-face with a scream as Jake works her over with both hands, and you fall back onto the bed, flat on your back, gasp and take giant, ridiculous gasps of air, panting like you just ran a mile (or got suffocated for a little bit, whatever), water standing in the corners of your eyes instinctively, hyperventilating, chest heaving like a bellows, mouth hanging foolishly open. You wheeze. With a shout, Jake finishes (again?!?!?!) on Jane’s back, mouthing her name like a lifeline. Your head is pounding, and you just got curb-stomped right in the confused teenage crush you have on literally all of your friends like the wire monkey that you are.

_ Please let it be over, _ you think, defeated.  _ Please, oh, God, please let me go to sleep, please just let me rest, please let me not think about this eyestrain clusterfuck nightmare for one second because it’s been semi-literally fucking me in both ends for however long, and this is not the first time I genuinely thought I might die from the sheer carnival shitshow mindfuck of of it all or just getting reamed to literal death _ . God isn’t real, though, so as Jake and Jane ride out the aftershocks, sucking on each others’ mouths, something heavy lands on your chest, knocking your skull back by the chin. Your head bounces a little in the mattress and gets buried in pillows. You can’t see anything except headboard because of that, and now you’re pretty sure there’s just a full-ass human being using you as their own personal zabuton, so you just keep wheezing. There’s no real reason to try and stop. It would be  _ great _ if you could be unconscious for the rest of this. Being objectified in this extremely literal, nonsexual way is definitely not hot and you are not into it except insofar as it provides the smallest glint of hope that you might not have to be conscious for any more of this. You’re a slightly more delicate than usual blow-up doll to the Tricksters and you're not even sure they’ve noticed the first part. Roxy shifts her weight on your torso, driving what feels like an elbow into your side, and you revise that to no, they definitely haven’t.

“Look what I made, boys! And Jane!” Roxy chirps, and holds up—God. At first glance, it looks like some kind of strange sculpture, a long shape made of semi-translucent sparkly pink material that might be glass. Until it wobbles _.  _ It  _ jiggles _ like the Cratchitt’s fucking Christmas pudding, and Roxy pulls two long straps out from its sides and buckles it between her legs. You are completely unashamed and justified to say that at this point you let out a small, heartfelt wail of pure terror. That…  _ contraption _ is, for one thing, entirely too large, an opinion further supported by the incredibly weird shape. While vaguely phallic, its tip is shaped like a squishy heart, and the shaft is ridged in spirals like a unicorn horn, and while you’re having trouble getting exact specs on the object for a number of reasons, ranging from the fact that you’re panicking so hard you may have blacked out for a second to the fact that it’s kind of quivering all over the place like a precarious dessert, you are 85% sure that there are  _ too many _ balls. 

“Huh,” Jane says appraisingly. Jake actually giggles and claps delightedly like a cartoon heiress receiving a birthday pony.

“I know, right?” Roxy says smugly. 

“It’s certainly something, Roxy,” Jane says contemplatively. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter and cocktease of a break placement... I promise the dildo tomfoolery is coming! I'm working on it! I'm just at a bit of a speed bump... I am going to try and finish this before the heat death of the universe, I swear. I have an outline and 4 chapters is my best guess at the moment.
> 
> Double-edged sword that Dirk voice is by far the easiest to write for me (...because he is my much reviled and government mandated overidentification) but it's never, ever sexy, it's always just some dumb longwinded shit or memes. He annoys me so much, which is to say he is my favorite boy and I love him the most.
> 
> GOD I wish I could draw/had money to commission art for this.
> 
> ...Happy Thomas Jefferson Death Day! Your present is MORE WEIRD HOMESTUCK PORN.
> 
> Iiii haven't really written breathplay before, could you tell? Also, how do you tag, like, emotional masochism, where Dirk's getting off on them breaking his heart? Is there a term for that? Please advise on both counts.
> 
> Please, please comment if you want more, or less, or anything in particular, or a fleeting moment of genuine connection, whatever. Seriously. I need comments to live, and they have a real influence on what happens next in this story kink-wise, and also just motivationally. Concrit! Spare kudos! Kinkshaming? I'll take it all. Please. 
> 
> Shiny new chapter titles from "Lollipop" by the Chordettes, because I AM VERY LITERAL AND I WILL NEVER CHANGE. I WILL NEVER IMPROVE.


	4. just like lightning from the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Legendary ZillyStrap Enters Play. Dirk's bad, weird day continues. (Or: more fucking. Shock and awe!)

“Alright, well, let’s get this party continuing, stop fucking around the bush!” Roxy says brightly, with palpable impatience, and in one smooth movement rolls off you, grabs you by the left thigh, and pretty much slams your ass down on the bed like a hamburger patty on a griddle. You flail, miraculously managing to squirm away for a second, and grab desperately for Jane. Looking more doubtful by the second, she meets your crazed eyes and holds a hand up. Roxy stops dead immediately.

“ _ What _ ?” she protests. Jane snorts.

“You can’t just jam  _ that _ thingamabob in Dirk all of a sudden and expect everything to be roses,” she says. You strongly agree. “At least give him a chance to warm it up first.” Roxy looks sullenly acquiescent. You struggle to your knees. You squeeze your eyes shut, open wide, and remind yourself that this is a kindness, remind yourself protesting will just tire you out, as Roxy plunges the thing down your throat to the hilt. It prods at a gag reflex that, exhausted, briefly rouses itself with a pang of nausea before it just gives up and fades away, the small wave of reflexive discomfort becoming nothing more than another distant ache.

Drool slips out of your mouth around the behemoth, your lips cracking at the corners where your jaw is held uncomfortably wide, futilely working around the toy. Its jellyish texture prevents you from getting a handle on it, squishing away from your teeth and tongue (and boy, the tricksters are lucky that this thing doesn’t have any sensation, because you are definitely not making it good right now, there’s a lot of spit and panic and not much else), refusing to stay in one place, inexorably pressing into you, seemingly expanding to fill its surroundings like a liquid. Also, from the plasticky artificial taste coating your mouth, the thing might be blue raspberry flavored. Yuck. Roxy looms over you, manic jack-o-lantern grin and pistoning hips driving a steady rhythm, hands on your shoulders, sugar-smell suffocating all around the two of you. It’s a pretty shit-awful experience, and you’re struggling for breath again before long, left to snatch what oxygen you can in frantic gasps when Roxy pulls back on the downstroke. The bad part about these moments of respite means that the Epic Zilldo is right in front of your face, and you’re forced to behold its glittery, neon rainbow-sherbet swirled glory directly. The wobbling, bulbous tip has a small, goofy face with pinwheeling eye ornaments and a death’s head grin on it, and you’re forced to watch its googly eyes google and spasmodically nod at you every couple of seconds, which, honestly, might be worse than any of the actual physical torture. 

After a few rounds of this, you get used to it (or—that’s not the right phrasing. It stops being the only thing you’re able to perceive, which is to say you’re disassociating a fair amount) and you observe Jake behind you, one hot hand on your hip, the other spreading your hole with two fingers. Jane’s directing, clinical but not discouraging notes, telling him “slower,” “left and a little and up,” “just like that, good.” And Jake, for once, is hanging on her every word, making minute adjustments as she speaks. The tiny movements of Jake’s fingers inside you are like hammer taps on the spiderwebbed glass of your consciousness; incrementally, with every shock of humiliatingly intense pleasure, your mind’s grip on your body gets looser. You’re almost floating away, can almost see Jane behind the three of you. If you could look her in the face, you’re sure she would be reclining regally against the headboard, issuing self-assured commands and emanating satisfaction with things going exactly as she says. Her eyes are focused behind her glasses and her voice is steady. Her fingers pump unhurriedly under her skirt as she takes care of herself and her glance flits between you and Roxy and Jake in a stable rotation like a responsible driver checking her mirrors. 

Your breath keeps coming short. You’re almost lost in that warm haze of not knowing what’s going on or doing anything about it, drifting away from concrete reality strangely guilt-free, as Jake crooks two fingers against your prostate and your thighs, without your input, lean back into the motion. Then Jane says, “I think he’s ready, Roxy.” 

Your eyes snap open in alarm and Jane pets your face again, smoothing her thumb over your cheekbone like she’s pushing down your panic with her bare hands. You’re ashamed that it almost works.

“He can take it,” she reassures Roxy, or maybe you, and Roxy makes an excited noise and pulls back, leaving your chin gross and wet and your throat sore as hell. She and Jake high-five over your head and basically trade places, Roxy shoving you down to your stomach, ass in the air again (and Christ, are you sick of being stuck  _ here _ , no leverage, no escape at all), Jake and Jane flanking the two of you loyally. You want your shades. You don’t know where your shades are and you hate it and that is just one single facet on the multitudinous glimmering Hope Diamond of terror and shame you are figuratively shitting as Roxy frots between your asscheeks.

Her tip snags the rim of your hole, making your whole body jolt, and you bury your face in the bed as Roxy lines up. She’s taking her time, it seems, or maybe the strap is just that big, because every time you think she can’t possibly continue she does, pressing you open even as with each new inch you sob and choke and your legs kick weakly, the sensation bleeding on the knife edge between the sore burn of tortured muscles and the hot, wet, blinding pleasure. You don’t even know if it’s Jane or Jake mouthing sloppy-wet up and down your torso.

You’re distantly surprised, as Roxy—it doesn’t even feel like she pulls back, full as you remain, but drag and  _ movement _ knocks you breathless anew—cocks her hips and reams you open with a decisive thrust. To clarify, you’re not surprised that she keeps fucking you—that has, sadly, become status quo. Simply that the relentless pressure and overwhelming size haven’t punctured something irreparable inside you, or possibly that Roxy’s shiny new peen hasn’t literally torn through your stomach like the world’s worst Alien remake (is that physically possible, knowing your approximate torso measurements and the size of the Zilldo as estimated by your eyes instead of how big it feels to your ass? Maybe not. Are you still very afraid of it happening?  _ Maybe so _ .) 

Honestly, would you even know if you got injured? You’re already bleeding, already hurting kind of to the max, and your brain is totally adrift with ecstatic shame. Anxiety tabled for a more convenient time, you think, as Roxy sets a ruthless rhythm, completely scattering and upending your thoughts with every thrust. 

The Tricksters truly just do not ever shut up, huh, Roxy and the others sounding off with every single shift, moans and sighs and saccharine giggles that convince you the monster strap is not a sword that cuts only one way, so to speak. There’s also, though it takes you a while to notice, a kind of tinkling carnival waltz playing in the background, drunkenly dipping in and out of time, which seems to strongly suggest that the activated Zilldo plays music.  _ Fucking great. _

Roxy sets her teeth at your jugular, mouthing over your frantic pulse and trembling throat. She whispers “ _ Good  _ boy,” voice heavy with such dark, grim satisfaction (sounding somehow both Roxy all over and totally unfamiliar) that you drop over the edge to one last orgasm. In all honesty, it probably produces more liquid in tears than come. From the way she stiffens behind you, Roxy’s not far behind. Distantly, Jake groans “YES!” His exultant voice is broken-up like a pack-a-day smoker, and something wet hits your back.

And then Jane’s there, wonderful headstrong leaderly-even-juju’d Jane, and she peels Roxy off you as Jake fades into the background, and she eases the thing out of your ass briskly, like ripping off a Band-Aid, continuing efficiently even when the bulbous head catches and you scrabble and beg, crazed. 

“Jane, Jane, no, ow, ah, please—Jane! Augh, nononono fuck, ow,” you garble, accidentally glancing a kick off her shoulder. She’s unfazed, plants a palm on your side and strokes, shushing you like the plucky teen protagonist of a movie about a willful horse nobody thought could win The Big Race. To your enduring shame, it totally works, and the Zillystrap disappears into her modus. Good goddamn riddance. Roxy and Jake are somehow already snoring, curled together like cats at the end of the bed, and when Jane pulls you down too, petting your hair, holding you close to the three of them—you don’t think anyone can blame you for being so tired that before you know it, you’re unconscious as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ate'nt dead yet! And I am working hard on The Zillyfuckening: The Official Novelization. Uhhhh, sorry update took Literal Months again, this is how I roll. This is the last actual porn chapter; the epiconclusiologue is more of the emotional masochism porn thing where it's just sadness. I am sorry the dumb jokes to porn ratio in this chapter is so bad. Blame Dirk and the way that he is. Hopefully the final chapter takes less than 2 months to arrive, and I'll see you in the overly talky notes of that. 
> 
> I have also (08/24) made some minor edits to previously posted chapters. Nothing worth rereading for, just fixing mechanics and stuff.


End file.
